


Mustard

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Casual Sex, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Violence, Miscarriage, Multi, Partying, Past Suicide Attempt, Public Sex, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Destruction, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character, Unplanned Pregnancy, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8126608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: The one where Tyler sits on street corners and plays his ukulele for money and Josh hates his life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> translation into русский available: [mustard](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5153350) by [gronery ](https://ficbook.net/authors/1005167)

He's playing the ukulele. The chord progressions are enchanting, reaching the stage of ethereal with the voice accompanying it. No words are produced, just a steady increase of low moans and gentle hums. He is magical, full of quiet vulgarity and harsh whispers. He is magical and _interesting_ , but the crowd around him isn't filling the instrument case with money. Instead they're supplying their wide eyes and parted lips as they gaze onto him and his bleeding hands.

It started with his fingers, little cuts that didn't mean anything at all. Then, it dripped, dripped, drips down his palms, his wrists, and finally pools onto the legs of his jeans, unable to stain the dark fabric. The bystanders are aghast, and some stick around to witness the end of the song. It comes suddenly, no build up, no hint; it comes with a hiss, a wince, and a tired voice going, "Sorry, I'm not very good." He pops those fingers in his mouth, sucking off the blood.

The audience scatters, no eye contact, not wanting to make eye contact and force small talk. A few dollar bills flutter into the case, which he smiles at before grabbing a ratty book and turning it into a paperweight. A woman with blonde hair and sunglasses personally hands him a twenty dollar bill, most likely as a co-payment for a doctor's appointment. She means well, and he gives her a smile, but once she leaves, he grimaces and clutches his ukulele as if he's ready to beat something with it.

Josh is the only one still standing, and begins to pray he won't be the victim of the ukulele-pummeling. They meet eyes, him holding his ukulele, his fingertips pink and sore, his arms and torso covered by the ugliest jacket Josh has ever seen. It's mustard-colored, an old yellow that belongs in the back of a grandmother's closet. He must have gotten it while thrifting; Josh doesn't think any store appealing to the masses would sell this sort of jacket.

It's not even appropriate weather to wear it. It's almost seventy, nearing the end of summer, but summer still has its grasp on them. He's in the shade, though, so it might be cool. Josh has no money with him, as he does every day he stops to watch the performance. This has been going on for weeks, maybe a month, and that ugly jacket has always made an appearance. Josh hopes he has good deodorant.

Since Josh has no money, he smiles, and is even smiled back. Josh decides to call the musician Mustard in the meantime, until he gets the courage to ask for a name. Josh doesn't see that happening for some time.

Josh puts back in his earbuds and continues his walk to work.

*

Sometimes Mustard does more than the humming. Sometimes actual words are said, but these are few and far between, and even if Josh did want to interpret them, he wouldn't be able to; Mustard tends to muffle that voice of his when people approach. It's odd, isn't it? For a musician trying to earn money playing on the street, he should be open for others to listen closely. Maybe the words are personal and hold only special meaning to him, but Josh doesn't see why that would stop him from sharing it with the rest of the world.

Josh wants to ask if he has a website or _anything_ , so he can go home and listen to something other than the sound of his own heart beating, but sadly, the only things that fall from Josh's mouth are ones of silence and pathetic desperation.

He stands on the other end of the street and watches Mustard play on his ukulele. Mustard stares at him, and Josh goes on to work.

*

On a day where there is more cloud than sun, Mustard sings about killing himself.

No one is around him. Those who do walk past do so hurriedly, their heads tilted down, pulling up their coat collars, turning excitedly to their phones. Nothing to see here.

Josh walks by him, his hood pulled over his head in preparation for the rain that's to come later. With his earbuds in, but the volume absent, he eavesdrops—it feels like eavesdropping. The song is private, intimate, sung with a high voice and shaking hands on ukulele strings.

"I need… something… to kill me. I am tired… of taking… my own life."

And now Josh is one of the strangers in the crowd, hurrying along with his eyes on the ground. He sees a pair of shoes—slippers, maybe some loafers; it would make sense with the ugly jacket. Inside the case, only spare change rests. Josh sticks his hand in a pocket and turns up his music, his eardrums pleading for him to stop.

*

Does it need to be said Josh hates his life? Well, Josh hates his life. Life is… overrated. He much prefers sleeping, where he can stay still and not have to think of anything for eight hours, at least. To be honest, Josh functions better on about twelve hours of sleep, but that's hard to come by.

He gets up every morning at seven and heads in to work at nine. It's shit, mostly sitting around and doing nothing, but it pays the bills. Barely. Josh is about to be evicted. Lucky him.

Josh has thought about ending it all more times than should be allowed. He's never acted on them. He wants to, though—God, does he want to.

It's shameful and a little embarrassing for him to admit seeing Mustard every day on his way to work is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world right now. Because he knows once he comes to terms with it, something bad will happen. He doesn't want something bad to happen.

Today, he gives Mustard two five dollar bills. Mustard winks and continues strumming. He's dancing, spinning in small circles and shaking his shoulders. His fingers are bleeding again.

Behind him, a man tosses a new box of Band-Aids into the instrument case. Josh can hear Mustard laugh from blocks away.

*

He thinks Mustard leaves around noon—lunchtime because he isn't there when Josh leaves work. Josh hopes he has enough money for a sandwich at a fast food place or even a taco from Taco Bell. Mustard is thin underneath that jacket, all bones; Josh knows what it's like to eat whatever he wants and not being able to put on the weight, but this doesn't apply to Mustard. Mustard looks as if he's skipping meals and spending that money on something other than food. His eye sockets are often black. Josh always thought it was from lack of sleep, but it resembles actual black eyes, from fighting, from _something_ violent.

Josh frowns.

Mustard is singing again. The song sounds cheerful, sounds like it's about trees. Josh gives Mustard another five, and Mustard gives Josh another wink.

*

Josh sleeps through his alarm on Monday. He wakes around eight thirty and has to run around his apartment to get ready. Breakfast can wait. Showers aren't every-day things. If he chews gum, no one will notice he didn't brush his teeth.

Despite running amok, Josh finds a scrap piece of paper and scribbles his name and number on it. He plans on dropping it in Mustard's case and sitting with his phone in his hand for the rest of the day. It's a slim chance, but Josh keeps his hopes up.

That's a mistake.

Mustard is gone.

And the next day, he doesn't return.

For a week, for two weeks, there is not even a glimpse of that ugly jacket, nor even a peep of that angelic voice. Josh asks around work if they've heard anything about the man on the side of the street who played that ukulele, but no one can tell Josh a name.

He knew this was bound to happen.

*

By the end of the month, his landlord evicts him. They seem upset by this—despite it being their decision—and even let Josh stay until he can find a new place to live. Josh thinks about jumping from a bridge or running headfirst into a car, but ultimately, he decides to suffer through this dilemma. It'll make him stronger _or something_.

Josh settles into a cheaper apartment. The first tenant he meets has a broken nose. The next is passed out on the stairway, on the third floor landing. They're still breathing, their chest rising and falling, so Josh leaves them alone. He's dragging bags behind him, a box under his arm. A girl with pink hair in a fifties style is leading him up the stairs. She isn't the landlord. She says the landlord is on a drunken bender and won't be able to see anyone until Monday. Josh should have waited until then to move. It's Friday, late, and the entire building is alive.

"You'll love it here," the girl says, holding the door open for Josh. "It's a bit… much, but we're a family here. We look out for each other."

To Josh's left, he hears shouting. To his right, two guys punch another guy in the stomach. There's vomit. Josh smiles at her. "Seems like it."

She helps Josh with his bags, setting down boxes and pushing them against walls. "If you didn't already notice, keep your door closed and locked if you don't want anybody walking in. We typically just keep all our doors open during the weekend. It's like a big party."

Josh stares at the floor. "Thanks for… the advice."

"No problem."

The place is small—too small. With only one bedroom and barely enough room in the kitchen to dance while cooking, Josh doesn't think he's going to like it here. No matter the… kindly neighbors or the open-door policy, Josh isn't welcome. He feels like an outsider, like someone who can disappear without a trace.

Josh unpacks to the sound of his next-door neighbor playing a piano. Too perfect, Josh thinks it's from a stereo, but then the notes turn a dark corner, and it might be due to hands beating on the keys. Josh wishes he were able to bring his drums with him, but it's easier this way. He needed the money. Besides, lugging it to the sixth floor with no access to an elevator would have been hell. "Elevator's going to get fixed soon," the girl said. "Monday, I think." Always Monday.

Even in the early hours of the morning, the commotion doesn't stop. It must calm down sometime, right?

Josh rubs his hands together, peering out the window. The view isn't very good; another brick building rests before him, but at least there's a fire escape. His last apartment didn't have that. Josh nudges open the window with a shoulder and begins to wonder if they also have an open-window policy as it swings freely with no obstacle.

Though the view might not be good, Josh feels a lot better once he's out here. The apartment is small, but the world is large. Josh touches the rails, damp from rain, and he leans over the edge. Creaking, groaning, Josh is here. He thinks about yelling, screaming that he's alive at the top of his lungs, but there's someone else doing it for him.

His new neighbor throws open their window, hopping onto the fire escape, grabbing hold of the railing, like Josh, and leaning over it, just the tips of their toes skimming the flooring. And then, they scream. They're screeching as if they were a banshee, but they aren't. They're just a man, face pale from lack of oxygen, black eyes, plaid pajama bottoms, slippers, and the ugliest yellow jacket Josh has ever seen.

Josh forgets how to form words. His lips tremble, his vocal cords vibrate, but there's only "mustard, mustard, mustard" going over in his head and he _can't say that_. That'll be _fucking embarrassing_ , but maybe the guy gets that a lot—being called Mustard, being made fun of for his ugly-ass jacket.

Mustard recovers, returning to his feet. He's shaking, hands coming to his hair, and he pulls. God, he pulls his hair. "Hey," Josh says, because he has to do _something_. "Hi."

Mustard recovers again, his arms by his side, turning his body toward Josh. "Hello." He acts like he wasn't screaming, but it's bouncing down alleys and rattling windows. His face is still pale, his breath lost and struggling. "Just moved in?"

Josh nods.

"Welcome to… to here." He gestures vaguely, touching his chest after. His fingers curl into his t-shirt. He goes inside.

He doesn't remember Josh.

Josh climbs back inside, too.

*

Saturday night is as loud, if not louder, than Friday. Josh stays in all day, finishing unpacking boxes and shoving the empty casings into a closet. It isn't a lot, but it's enough to resemble a home. Sort of.

Josh goes outside that night. Close to one in the morning, it's chilly. Josh pulls on a thin jacket, a dark blue color, not like the yellow that's out here again. Mustard is sitting on the stairs, eyes ahead, a cigarette between his fingers. The sleeves of his jacket are pushed to his elbows. Each forearm is wrapped several times with thick gauze. Josh tries not to stare. "Hey." He shuts his window.

"Hi." Flicks of ash drift down and fall through the cracks of the fire escape. "Have we met before?"

"Yesterday."

Mustard smiles. "Oh. Must've forgot. I meant before. You look familiar."

Josh leans against the rails, all elbows, toward Mustard. "You used to play the ukulele."

"Did you give me any money?"

"Yeah, here and there." Josh wants to tell Mustard he was about to give Mustard his number, but decides against it. "What's your name, man?"

"Tyler."

"I'm Josh."

"Did I ask?"

Josh blinks. "Tyler, has anybody told you that jacket is one of _the most_ ugliest pieces of shit?"

Tyler snorts, sticking the cigarette in his mouth. "Just you wait until it gets colder, Joshie. I have another one. Big. Warm. Fake fucking fur. Inside pockets." He looks at Josh, standing, walking, taking out the cigarette and blowing his exhale in Josh's general direction. "And I'm going to wear the _hell_ outta it."

And then, Tyler spits.

It hits Josh's cheek, sliding to tumble between their fire escapes. Someone might think it's rain.

"Good," Josh says.

"Good?" Tyler furrows his brow.

"Well, bad that you don't swallow. But good because yellow is totally your color."

Tyler narrows his eyes. Josh does, too, before ducking inside his apartment.

*

Josh wakes on Sunday to a quiet building. He went to bed after the chat with Tyler, and that might have been a little after one thirty. Now it's close to eleven, and Josh had expected the sound to never stop. Yet it has. Josh pokes out his head, looking from one end of the hallway to the other. Most, if not all, of the doors are closed, shut tightly and left alone. Here and there, doors are cracked, some completely open. Sounds of life fill the hall—gentle life, life that carries. From the window at the end of the hall to the elevator at the other end, there is peace, pastel colors, the smell of breakfast and marijuana and perfume.

Josh might grow to like it here.

He steps out into the hall, then goes back to put on shoes. His laces are undone, tucked into the side of the shoe as he leaves his apartment unit for a second time. With no set plan, Josh decides to wander, but his wandering doesn't go far. Tyler's door is open, though no one else other than Tyler himself is inside. The layout of his place looks identical to Josh's, if not a mirror image. He's standing next to the stove, stirring something in a pot. The ugly yellow jacket isn't on his back; it's resting on the arm of a sofa pushed against the span of the wall beneath the window to the fire escape. Josh thinks about doing something like that. It would be easier to climb up and down from the windowsill with a makeshift stepping stool.

Tyler isn't wearing the jacket, but he is wearing a baggy t-shirt—pajamas, most likely, the sleeves long and reaching his elbows. Naturally, Josh's eyes fall lower and settle on the bandages around Tyler's forearms. Josh knows what's under there, no explanation needed. He frowns.

"You gonna come in, or are you gonna stand there and gawk some more?" Tyler is looking at Josh, venom in his voice, but a smile on his face. "I won't bite." He turns back to the oven. "Unless you ask."

Josh steps his foot inside, the other sliding after. Nothing bad happens. A smirk lines Tyler's mouth, a sharp remark on his tongue. He keeps it to himself. Josh crosses his arms over his chest, eyes darting from corner to corner. "So… am I, like… _expected_ to keep my door open, too?"

"I didn't, at first. Shy. Still shy. But it's polite, you know what I mean? After I hung out at other people's rooms, slept in their beds, vomited in their toilets, I felt obligated to give back."

Josh frowns again. "Oh."

Tyler grabs two bowls from a cabinet, then rummages in a drawer for silverware—forks. "You don't have to let anybody in if you don't want to. There's some… unsavory people. You wanted some mac 'n' cheese, right?"

"I never said that."

"Well, _yeah_ , but who's gonna turn down mac 'n' cheese?"

Josh can't argue with that.

They sit on the couch, Tyler with a leg to his chest and eyes on the television. He stabs the macaroni and brings it to his mouth, second nature almost. Josh is more attentive. He doesn't want to make a fool of himself. Behind them, the windows are old, and a draft squeezes its way inside. Tyler ignores it, and so does Josh.

"So," Tyler starts, "are you fitting in?"

"Only been here since Friday."

"That's plenty of time to make new friends. I made friends my first night. Wanted to really show them what kind of person I was, so I ran down the halls with my ukulele and screamed and screamed. It was Saturday night. Everybody loved me until it turned to Sunday, and then I was 'annoying' and 'needed to have a dick down my throat'." Tyler rolls his eyes. "If it's not Sunday, you can do whatever the hell you want around here. Sunday is the quiet day, where you drop to your knees that morning and pray for forgiveness, and drop to your knees that night and pray for that cute guy at the end of the hall to slide his dick in your mouth. Either way, you're begging for God at the end of it."

Josh isn't hungry anymore. "Oh."

"Don't stress too much. You don't have to suck some guy's dick. Eating out a cunt's just as nice." Tyler eats more of his macaroni. "Or ass. Are you gonna finish yours?" He points with his fork, small bits of yellow half-tubes still stuck to the prongs. They dig into Josh's barely eaten breakfast once Josh passes over the bowl. "Thanks."

"Dick's fine," Josh says quietly.

Tyler laughs. "Yeah, it is." He chews, trying to get back to watching TV, but there's something in his eyes, something on his tongue. Josh sticks his hands in his hair and scratches his scalp. "Do you want to suck my dick?" asks Tyler, making each fork prong have a noodle before raising it to his mouth. "Need to have something more than a few bites of mac 'n' cheese for breakfast."

Unable to believe his ears, Josh sits there for a moment and doesn't speak. Tyler doesn't ask again, just eats—rather loudly. It's gross, and Josh runs his hands down his face.

"Yeah, sure, I'll suck your dick."

"Are you a slut, Josh?" Tyler raises an eyebrow. "Barely even know me, and you want my dick down your throat."

"B-but you—"

"Oh, jeez." Tyler twists and sets the bowls on the floor. "You're actually about to cry, kid." Josh lowers his head, Tyler touches his shoulders, and Josh shrugs him away. "Josh, hey, don't cry."

" _Not_ crying."

"Okay, cool. Allergies? Yeah, this damn window won't shut all the way." Tyler turns, chest to the back of the couch, and tries pushing down the window. His arms are weak, shaking, straining his injured wrists. It's actually really pathetic. If Josh wasn't nearly in tears, he'd be laughing. A full minute passes, agonizingly slow. Tyler sighs and collapses. Cheek to the sofa, eyes closed, Tyler says, "I was teasing. If anyone's a slut, it's me." When Tyler opens his eyes, the threat of tears is there, too, and Josh doesn't know why that sight makes him smile. "Do you still want to blow me?"

Josh glances to the left, to the front door open and inviting. "Someone might walk in?"

"Yeah. They might smell the mac 'n' cheese. If we don't make eye contact, they won't disturb us."

"Have you done this before?"

"Like I said," Tyler says, and pushes his boxers to his thighs, "I'm a slut."

All eyes drop to the recently unveiled bare skin. Dark hair not maintained for months, already half-hard, Tyler looks almost bored as he settles against the couch and tosses an arm behind his head. "Pretty, ain't it?"

Josh nods.

"Ever sucked on one this pretty before?" Tyler takes his cock in his hand, at the base, and squeezes.

Josh shakes his head.

"Ever sucked on _any_ before?" Tyler raises that eyebrow again, smug thing.

"A few. I'm not a _connoisseur_ or anything, dude. Stop trying to build this, like, backstory for me. I'm not some fucking virgin."

Tyler snorts. "Almost cried when I asked if you were a slut."

"No, I didn't. Shut up. Oh, my God, I'm going to leave if you make one more sound." Josh narrows his eyes. "I swear."

With only another raise of that stupid eyebrow, Tyler wiggles his fingers and holds out his pinky. Rolling his eyes, Josh hooks his pinky with Tyler's and watches Tyler drop his hand to hold his cock again. He gives a dry pump, closes his eyes, and arches his back at the introduction of Josh's mouth. Josh doesn't start easy; he goes in immediately, eagerly. His lips touch Tyler's hand. Josh kisses it the best he can while he remembers to breathe, to swallow, to swirl his tongue around the head as he pulls up. After the fourth bob, Tyler gets enough sense to remove his hand, to let Josh take over completely, to wrap his fingers around Josh's curls, and he pulls, and he yelps, he groans and shudders, and Josh pulls off Tyler's cock, drool stringing them together.

"Thought I told you," Josh says, "to not make another sound."

Tyler slowly blinks. "What?"

Josh spits. Snot, pre-come, saliva, it lands in Tyler's pubes. "Thanks for the mac 'n' cheese." And he leaves, like he told Tyler he would, and Josh expects shouting, maybe even Tyler grabbing him and pushing his head down to finish, but there's nothing like that.

As Josh leaves, Tyler laughs—actually laughing, holding his stomach and wiping away tears and having trouble catching his breath. He's laughing, saying, "I hate you, man," and Josh smiles and turns into his apartment.

*

For the rest of that Sunday, Josh lies in bed and tries to think of happier thoughts, tries not to think of himself dying, jumping off the fire escape, and screaming until he can't feel the wind in his hair, the heat on his face, and Tyler's cock in his mouth.

*

Josh wakes up at seven on Monday. He feels like shit. Thankfully the building is quiet. Josh expects chaos when he comes home after work. The landlord will be nursing a killer hangover. Josh wonders if he should wait to talk to them on Tuesday. When Josh finally decides that he will wait for Tuesday to come, it's as he's heading down the six flights of stairs, dragging his feet and working a beanie over his head. When Josh finally decides he won't seek out the landlord until tomorrow, the landlord finds him.

Tall, brown hair swept back, sunglasses on his face and flowers on his arm, the landlord is chatting with maintenance workers as they stand around the broken elevator. The doors are open, the shaft visible, and Josh digs his teeth into his lip to keep himself from diving. Josh is edging past the group, pushing in his shoulders, trying to appear smaller, but the guy with the sunglasses catches his elbow and pulls him, invites him in, an arm around Josh's shoulders. "Whoa there, do I know you?"

"Josh," Josh squeaks.

"Hey, Josh, are you settling in okay?" His breath smells like mint.

"Yeah. It's okay."

"Good, my room's down the hall." He points. "Get me if you need anything: rowdy neighbors, bug infestation, hell, I'll plunger your toilet." He taps his chin. "Second thought, don't bother telling me about rowdy neighbors. Just tell me if they're being violent and harassing you, okay?" Sunglasses on his nose, brown eyes bloodshot and concerned, he says, "You got that, Josh?"

Josh nods, attempts a smile. "Yeah."

"Great." He pats Josh's back, propelling him forward. "Name's Brendon. Have a nice day, Josh."

*

His morning is okay. It isn't great, but it isn't bad. Josh doesn't think about death once.

On his break, his boss wants to see him in their office. "Okay," Josh says, because he doesn't expect anything awful, like getting _fucking fired_.

"We're letting a lot of people go," they tell him.

"It isn't just you," they say.

"You're the last person we hired. It wouldn't be fair to the others who were here longer," they reason.

"You can put me as a reference on your résumé," they say.

"Fuck you," Josh says, and leaves.

*

Tyler is standing in front of the elevator. His index finger is white from how much pressure he applies to the up arrow button. Josh goes beside him, smacking Tyler's hand from the button. Tyler isn't alarmed. He's out of it, his ukulele's neck in his fist, a string broken and hanging limp. "Fixed the elevator," he mumbles, and pulls the sleeve of his mustard sweat jacket back onto his shoulder. "I think they did."

"Are there any parties tonight?" Josh asks. He hears the music from down here, is already anticipating seeing guys getting beat up and bloody noses and bare flesh.

"Parties every night," Tyler says. He taps the button again. "Find one yourself."

"I'll suck your dick. Actually finish this time."

Tyler chews on the inside of his cheek, slow, like it's gum. "In front of everyone."

"What?"

Still so slow, Tyler tilts his head to the side, and he eyes Josh, half-lids, red lips. "Suck my dick in front of everyone."

Josh stares at Tyler's lips. "Okay."

Josh stares at Tyler's lips parting, opening, smiling. Tyler is smiling. White teeth, crooked teeth, pretty teeth, Tyler smiles and giggles. It's so high. _He's_ so high. "Things get… _interesting_ once it turns dark. I'll get you when the sun goes down."

"You better, yellow asshole."

They take the stairs together. Tyler giggles all the way.

*

As soon as it turns dark, Josh regrets everything that happened today. He regrets waking up, regrets talking to his new landlord, regrets going to work, and most of all, he regrets asking Tyler to show him where the parties are tonight. Josh was stupid— _is_ stupid, and he doesn't know what to do when Tyler knocks on his door. Hide? Yeah, he'll scurry under the bed, like that solves anything.

Josh rubs his knuckles into his eyes. Tyler might not even show up.

But he does. He's knocking on Josh's door, singing Josh's name, and God, does that send shivers down Josh's spine. He missed that voice. He missed hearing it so damn much.

Despite feeling like a ton of bricks landed on his head, Josh answers the door. Tyler is there, mustard-yellow jacket on, sleeves loose and hiding the gauze on his forearms. Sober, alert, Tyler woke from a nap minutes before. A pillow mark lines his cheek, hair stuck up all over the place, Tyler immediately registers something is wrong. Josh expects a rude reaction, a scoff, a scold, but Tyler is stepping into Josh's apartment, kicking the door shut with a foot, sweater paws touching Josh's shoulders. "Dude, are you okay?"

"I don't want to go out, Tyler," Josh says, the sound of men yelling and running down the halls accompanying his whispers of a voice. "I made a mistake."

"Is it because I said you needed to suck my dick in front of everybody? You don't gotta do that. I was joking." Tyler pauses. "I mean, I wasn't… joking… _entirely_. I do want you to suck my dick in front of everybody, but you gotta be okay with it. We don't have'ta do that. Don't even have to get plastered. We can—"

"Tyler"—Josh shakes his head—"please stop."

Tyler isn't an asshole. Why isn't he being an asshole? "No partying. We don't have to party. You don't have to party to fit in, okay? You can stay here. Turn on the TV super loud. Listen to some music. Read a book. Dude, you don't have to put yourself out there."

And then, "Dude, are you going to cry?"

And, "Dude, why are you fucking crying?"

There he is.

Josh shoves. He sticks his knuckles back into his eyes. "Shut up."

"Don't have to fucking cry. Are you seriously crying?" Tyler hunches forward, hands on his knees, and tilts his head to the side, slow, pink lips now, parted lips, white teeth, smiling, laughing. "You're crying."

"Shut up!" Josh shoves again, and Tyler falls on his side, his hip. "I'll fucking kick your ass. Shut up."

Tyler laughs more. "Love to see you try. Stop fucking crying. Let's go out and do something."

Josh rubs his arms and walks across the room, across cold wood, toward the window. It groans as it swings open.

"Oh, you wanna sit out there? I'm down for that."

Josh stands, Tyler follows, and Tyler stands, too. Silence, chilly air, runny nose, Josh listens to Tyler. He listens to Tyler and shivers.

"Josh, do you want to kill yourself?"

"Shut up, Tyler."

To both of their surprise, Tyler shuts up. Light weight on the fire escape, shoes tapping, Tyler moves to stand awkwardly by Josh's side, hand outstretched, sleeves rolled to show off the bandages around his wrists again. Josh's attention is meant to be on the thing between Tyler's fingers—the joint, the medication, the relaxation—but his eyes are drawn to those thick bandages, those safety nets, and Josh knows he's being watched. Tyler doesn't say a word, though; he's learned his mistake when it comes to Josh wanting him to be quiet.

"Tyler," Josh counters, "do _you_ want to kill yourself?"

Only speak when spoken to, Tyler says, "Yes."

They each drop onto the fire escape stairs, Josh sitting a step above Tyler, Tyler leaning against Josh's knees as he lights the joint and sucks on the end. "Who found you?" Josh asks, and stares at the exhale leaving the smallest part in Tyler's lips.

"My mom. I was stupid and did it in the kitchen while my family was in the other room. Cousins were over, too. Relatives I didn't even know the names of. We went to the park for a family reunion, then came back to my parents' house to catch up—as if they didn't fucking catch up enough all gathered around old picnic tables that stabbed splinters into my fingers." Tyler shivers and pulls his jacket closer around him. He passes the joint to Josh. "So, it was after my aunt made a… stupid comment about, like…" Quiet, save for Josh inhaling, Tyler presses his palms to his face and lets out a sigh. Defeat weighs heavy on his shoulders. "I don't know what she said. I forgot."

Josh slowly spreads his legs, Tyler falling for a moment, but he's comfortable still. His knees are to his chest, his injured wrists curved and clutching his shins. "I got up. I went into the kitchen. I picked up a knife from the dirty dishes. And I cut myself. It stung. It hurt. I hated it. I started to cry. And I cut myself again. And I cut myself again. My mom got up to see what had caused such a loud racket in the kitchen. I took down the soap bottles and the dish rack when I fell. I got blood everywhere." Tyler closes his eyes. "I got blood everywhere."

Josh reaches around and hands the joint to Tyler. Tyler takes it with tears on his cheeks. "I got blood everywhere."

"Hard to believe your parents let you live by yourself." Josh draws out a hand, slowly runs his fingertips through Tyler's hair.

"They said they wanted me to 'maintain my independence', said they were a phone call away." Tyler sucks on the joint and flicks it over the edge. They watch it fall, the tiny flame disappearing. "Lemme suck your dick."

It's cold outside, but sweat rolls down Josh's sides. "No."

Tyler shifts, turning around, facing Josh, smiling at Josh. He's pushing himself onto his knees, touching Josh's knees, leaning in, red lips, chapped lips. "Lemme kiss you then."

"Okay."

It's wet. Tyler's lips are already parted, eager, wanting more. Josh lets Tyler inside, and Tyler wraps his arms around Josh's waist, hugging, squeezing, and Josh does it right back with his arms around Tyler's neck. Distant, the music from the apartment is loud, electronic. Sweaty bodies will be pressed together, hands touching asses, asses touching hips, rolling, rolling—moaning, Tyler's moaning, a spot of drool on the corner of his mouth. Josh licks it. "I lost my job today," he says.

"That why you wanted to get trashed?" His palm to Josh's chest, Josh's heart races. He ignores it. Tyler runs his hand up and tugs at the hair at the nape of Josh's neck, visible beneath his beanie. "I can help you get a new job."

"Whatever."

"Gotta get your mind off this. How about you fuck me?"

Josh shakes his head. "No."

"Well, I need to get fucked tonight." Tyler pushes himself from Josh. He dusts himself off, fixes his jacket. "Keep your door locked."

"Kiss me before you go."

Tyler does, on Josh's forehead. It lingers. Josh's heart breaks.

"I'll see you in the morning, Josh." Without waiting for a reply, Tyler climbs through Josh's window and leaves to get fucked. And Josh? Josh sits on the fire escape steps and rocks, cries, and thinks about Tyler's face between his thighs. It hurts.

*

Josh sits out there for hours, though it only feels like minutes. He loses himself in the music, hating the way it rattles his bones and clenches his teeth. He doesn't know what's wrong with him.

Tyler shoves open Josh's window and steps onto the fire escape. Mustard-yellow jacket and loafers on his feet, he looks like he's had better nights. "Thought I told you to lock your door," Tyler says. "You didn't lock your door."

"Really? I had no idea."

"Anybody could have walked in, Josh. _Anybody_."

"I can see that, Tyler."

Tyler's nose is red, his eyes dark. "Can I sleep in your bed? Two guys are in mine."

"Make them leave."

"I can't. They're really big. Think one of them had a swastika on his thigh."

Josh rubs his eyes. "Sure, yeah, whatever."

They climb inside, Josh then Tyler, both shivering, both waiting for the other to say something. Josh breaks the silence. "Did you sleep with them?"

"Like I said," Tyler says, and moves past Josh, toward the bedroom, "they're really big."

Tyler keeps on that ugly jacket. Josh doesn't complain.

In the morning, Tyler is the big spoon, holding Josh and crying in his sleep. When he wakes, Josh wipes the tears from his neck, from Tyler's face, and kisses Tyler. Choking, weeping, Tyler clings to Josh. Josh pulls him in tighter, closer, so close, Tyler's legs around his waist, Tyler's arms around his torso. They stay like that for the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon. Josh doesn't have to worry. He doesn't have a job.

They roll out of bed around five. "Fix me something to eat," Tyler says, in the kitchen, standing next to Josh. "I made you mac 'n' cheese." Face puffy from crying, from last night—from whatever he did last night—Tyler looks as if he needs to crawl back into bed and sleep for a dozen more hours.

Josh sighs. "Didn't ask you to."

"But you still ate it. Didn't even finish. Ungrateful piece of shit." Tone tired, venom is absent. Tyler pinches the bridge of his nose, annoyed with himself and everything else at once. "I'm hungry. Fix me food."

In the back of Josh's fridge, he has a can of cinnamon rolls. Tyler smiles. " _Dude_." Cinnamon rolls are highly valued. Tyler perks up as he watches Josh prepare the pan and carefully place each roll on it. At peace is the only way Josh can describe it. Bags under eyes gone, a faint grin placid and soothing, Josh catches himself staring at Tyler every few minutes. Either Tyler doesn't notice or doesn't mind the attention. He rolls his shoulders, shaking them, and dances like Josh saw him do before, albeit with a ukulele in his hands and singing about killing himself. Nothing like this happens, except for the dancing. Tyler isn't very good at dancing, but his face is split in two from how wide he smiles, so Josh doesn't critique. Why would he? Josh is a bad dancer, too.

Tyler tries to get Josh to dance with him. "Please," he says, and pokes out his bottom lip.

"Can't," Josh says, and shows Tyler his fingers, sticky with icing. It looks bad—and gets worse when Tyler licks it away.

"Now you can."

So, they dance together. It's terrible. Josh feels lighter than air, so they consider this a success.

Tyler is a messy eater. Josh tries to tune it out, but Tyler is loud, and says the food tastes better this way. Josh rolls his eyes and calls Tyler an idiot.

Tummies full, corners of mouths sticky, Tyler crowds Josh against a counter and kisses him, open, gasping, and Josh kisses Tyler right back, holding him close, touching his sides, hard lines, flat lines. Josh's forehead comes down to Tyler's shoulder, and soon, they're standing there, Josh now the one crying with Tyler hugging him and giving him reassurances in the form of back pats and whispers of "You're okay, you're special, you're magical, you are made of stars."

He's full of shit, and yet, Josh doesn't have the heart to call him out on it. "Tyler," Josh mumbles, "I do want to kill myself."

"Me, too, Joshie," Tyler says, and lets Josh wipe his nose on that ugly jacket. "We'll think of something. Need to shower. I'll get you when the sun goes down."

"You better."

Tyler kisses Josh's cheek. "I will."

*

Looking as if he hadn't showered nor changed clothes, but smelling as if he had, Tyler is in Josh's apartment, taking Josh's hands, smiling, laughing. Already buzzed, Tyler draws Josh out, humming all the while. "You can leave at anytime," he reminds Josh. Head nodding and biting his lip, Tyler is nervous Josh might leave in the next minute. "I'll even, uh, walk you back."

"I'm staying," Josh says, "with you."

They go to the third floor, have to hop down the stairs because of the crowd around the elevator, daring each other to ride it. "Think it's still broken," someone says, to which someone else replies, "Two hundred dollars to the person who lets me fuck them in it as we crash and burn and die."

"Tyler." Josh is still holding Tyler's hand, so he tugs, and Tyler stops. "Tyler, I—"

But Tyler is turning on his heel and heading back up the stairs. He thinks he knows what Josh is about to tell him. He doesn't. He doesn't.

"No," Josh says, and tugs on Tyler's hand again. "I want to blow you."

Tyler blinks. "In front of everyone?" he asks, voice cracking, eyes wide.

Josh nods, and Tyler stumbles, leans against the wall. "You're shitting me."

"Take me to a crowded room. I'll drop to my knees and suck your dick and let everyone know how good you taste."

"Okay," Tyler whispers. "Okay, okay, but… gotta suck off other people, too. Want to watch you."

"Okay."

"Okay." Tyler smiles. "Okay."

Back to the third floor, Tyler's back to some stranger's living room wall, Josh chokes on Tyler's cock while Katy Perry's "E.T." pounds through the apartment complex. Booming, the bass rattling windows, Josh doesn't think he'll be able to hear Tyler moaning, but he can, and it's so good to hear his voice seemingly harmonize with the ones around them.

When Tyler comes, Josh swallows, and when Josh sits back on his heels, another cock is poking at his lips. The guy above Josh has scabs along his jaw line and a white-toothed grin, and the way he scratches Josh's scalp causes Josh's mouth to open and take this other cock inside. Thinner than Tyler, smaller than Tyler, Josh finds it easier to suck on, but Tyler is getting down on his level, knees to the floor and whispering in his ear. "So good, so fucking good. Look at how good you're being."

Josh closes his eyes.

"Such a good boy. You love doing this, don't you? Look at you. Look at you."

Josh pops off his lips, opens his eyes, and watches Tyler take his turn, immediately swallowing around the dick. Though it's expected Tyler maintain eye contact with the owner of said dick, he's staring at Josh, red lips, hollowed cheeks, an angel. Tyler is soft. Josh hugs him, tight, nose pressing into the stupid mustard jacket. "Look at you," Josh says.

Tyler hums and parts his lips for another man to his right, cock out and already leaking. He licks at the slit, giving the dark head a kiss before taking it inside, all the way. Josh finishes off the other guy with his palm, letting the semen land on his cheek. It's gross. Josh feels gross, but it's everything to him to see Tyler frown and furrow his brow and gently wipe away the spunk with this thumb.

"Such a waste," he says, and sticks his thumb in his mouth.

Somewhere on the fourth floor, Tyler pours drink after drink down Josh's throat and cuddles with him in the corner. This tenant has their window open. It's raining and cold, and Tyler is warm as he wraps around Josh and kisses his neck. The night is still young, but Tyler's lips stop moving, and he begins to snore, and Josh snores with him.

In the morning, still somewhere on the fourth floor, Josh wakes to Tyler grunting, to Tyler getting fucked. Hands and knees, jeans pushed down, jacket shoved up, hands with unclipped fingernails dig into Tyler's hips as they move him back and forth, back and forth. "Right there," Tyler mumbles. "Shi', righ' there."

Josh watches him, stomach tight, hard to breathe. The guy behind Tyler sees Josh, and he pulls Josh over, one-hand unbuttons his jeans. Josh lets him. He's watching Tyler. Tyler is out of it, eyes shut, oblivious to the guy ducking his hand into Josh's pants, wet fingers, slick fingers, fucking Josh with one finger, with two. Awkward angle, awkward feeling, Josh comes first, then Tyler, then the guy. A domino effect, they lie in a pile on the floor. Nobody moves, not for an hour. Josh is asleep and wakes to Tyler being put to work again, this time by a girl holding his face between her legs.

Josh can't watch this time. He squeezes his thighs together, stands, and hurries out of the apartment unit. Tyler leaves not long after that, and immediately kisses Josh upon finding him in the stairwell. "Tasted so good," Tyler says, and Josh grabs the lapels of his stupid jacket and sucks on his bottom lip. "I could eat out for a week and never grow tired of it."

"Shut up." Josh rolls his eyes. "Too early."

"Are you hung over?"

Josh shrugs.

"Well, I am. Let's go back to my place. I'll lock the door." They climb the stairs. "We'll talk."

Talking is hard. As soon as they're in Tyler's apartment, they're rolling around on the sofa, groping asses and kissing mouths. Josh feels too hot and too much. Tyler starts pulling at Josh's sweatshirt, but Josh stops him, smacking hands, and then Tyler is smacking Josh's hands, and they're hitting each other, pinching, slapping, punching. On the hardwood floor they finish, Josh bruised and Tyler's cheek red, hugging, shivering. Tyler's window causes a draft.

"We should kill ourselves," Tyler mumbles. "I promised my parents I wouldn't do it, but I'm gonna. We should do it."

"Like, today? Tomorrow? This weekend?" Josh yawns. "Need to check my schedule."

"The first of December," Tyler says.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Josh doesn't dwell on it. "Sure, yeah. Did we just form a suicide pact?"

"Better than a pregnancy pact."

The best laughter is the kind that's silent and forces everybody to hold their sides.

*

Once the hangover passes, Tyler sits in his bedroom, at his keyboard, and he plays ugly sounds and sings pretty words. It's the same song Josh heard the night he moved in. Curled in on himself, Josh cries, and by the end, Tyler cries, too.

"Everything will be okay," Tyler says, and holds tissues to his nose to keep the snot from dripping. "One day at a time, one night at a time, we're going to be okay."

Josh presses his hands to his face. It's getting hard to breathe.

"It's all right," Tyler says. "The sun always rises to begin another day."

"We'll be okay," he says. "We'll be okay."

*

Sometimes they don't see each other until the sun disappears in the sky to be replaced by the moon. Sometimes Josh stays in bed and ignores Tyler knocking on his door. Sometimes Josh opens his eyes to find Tyler in bed with him, having leaped onto his fire escape and climbed through the window.

Sometimes Tyler is bleeding. Sometimes Tyler is crying. Sometimes Tyler is under the influence.

But Tyler is always wearing that ugly yellow jacket.

Like he told Josh before, once it gets colder, he switches the thin sweat jacket with a coat of heavier material, fake fur and inside pockets and still in that absurd yellow hue.

He pulls it out one night, showing up at Josh's doorway with the hood over his head and a grin on his face. "Let's get fucked up," he says.

Tyler is getting worse, while also getting better. In October, Tyler asks Josh to sit on street corners with him and play music. "Please." Tyler pouts. "I'll give you half of the money we make."

Josh sits on an old five-gallon bucket, hitting three others with a pair of drumsticks he kept from when he still drummed. He needed money. He needs money. He can't afford anything. His head hurts. His chest hurts. It hurts to breathe.

"Can I ask you something?" Josh asks. They're on break, Tyler cleaning the strings of his ukulele with napkins kept inside a pocket of his yellow coat. "I'm gonna ask you anyway."

"Does it look like I care about what you're going to ask?"

"Okay, so," Josh continues, "let's say someone was taking a medication, but because of their current situation, they're unable to afford said medication. Would you tell them to get over it because they don't need the medication, or would you tell them to put the medication into their budget?"

Tyler stops cleaning. He narrows his eyes. "What, like, weed?"

"If you say so."

"Get over it. Weed's good, but food's more important. Paying rent." Tyler turns his head. "If you need weed, I can get you some."

"I don't need pot." Josh sighs. "Thanks for the offer, though. Can we play again?"

Josh is thankful for the cold weather. He can wear layers and baggy clothing without anybody batting an eye. Besides, if Tyler did make fun of his layers, Josh need only point at that mustard-yellow coat, and Tyler would shake his shoulders and roll his eyes, and then they would dance. They're dancing a lot now. First in the safety of their kitchens with food cooking on the stove, they're doing it in front of people. Spectators will assume they're drunk, but the smiles and laughter on their faces are produced by something Josh doesn't want to think about because it will break him. He doesn't want to think about that, especially when it comes to Tyler.

Tyler is getting worse. Josh doesn't go out every night, but Tyler does. Josh can hear him. He hears Tyler screaming, singing, screeching. Down moments happen, and Josh takes these moments to press his ear to the wall and listen, listen, listen to Tyler whisper to the neighbors.

"Got a light?"

"No, that doesn't look infected."

"You don't need a condom."

"Stick that needle in me."

Tyler's wrists are free for the world to see. There are no scars. Josh wonders if Tyler lied to him, and then wonders what Tyler could possibly gain from lying about attempting suicide.

Nothing, Josh concludes, and he sleeps peacefully at night and wakes to Tyler in his bed, yellow jacket, comfortable sweatpants, and a relaxed expression.

Tyler tells Josh he doesn't dream. "Are you going to tell me your dumb dreams now?" Tyler stuffs more Cinnamon Toast Crunch in his mouth.

"No, they're dumb."

Tyler nudges him with an elbow. "Tell me, dude."

"You're with me." Josh shrugs. "It's dumb."

"Sounds pretty dumb."

They smile. Tyler's eyes are pink, and his lips are bitten to shreds. His hips are bruised, and there are puncture sites in the crooks of his elbows. Josh doesn't ask. He doesn't want to hear the answer.

*

On a Friday, Josh opens his door and lets in someone other than Tyler. The crowd that arrives is small and considerate, and they bring their own alcohol. Whether it's due to this being Josh's first time as a host or something else, Josh doesn't care to find out. He's enjoying himself, and Tyler is, too.

Tyler is hanging all over every man he comes in contact with—and dropping to his knees. Josh watches, everybody watches, because that's what Tyler wants. And when Tyler is stripped down, completely bare, and passed between four men, Josh watches then, too.

That night, that early morning, Josh falls asleep on the couch and is unable to think of nothing other than Tyler's lips, Tyler's eyelashes, Tyler's legs, Tyler's toes. Josh falls asleep on the couch. Josh wakes on the couch. Clothed, snoring, Tyler is beside him. The front door is shut, and no mess is left behind from the party.

Josh sticks his feet under Tyler's thighs and goes back to sleep.

*

"Do we need to talk?"

Tyler is drinking Pepto-Bismol, nose wrinkled and eyes squeezed shut. "'Bout?"

Josh shrugs. "Anything."

Sundays are quiet days. Tyler lets out a groan, loud, childish. "Feels like I'm gonna shit and throw up all at once."

For the rest of the day, they talk through the bathroom door, Josh only opening the door to roll water bottles through to make sure Tyler stays hydrated.

"What did you want to talk 'bout?" Tyler asks, his full weight on the door. He's sitting, head tilted back; Josh can hear him thud it periodically.

"I don't hate my parents," Josh says. "They just… don't understand. I wanted to do music. I _did_ music. I was in a band. 'Make sure you have a backup plan,' they always told me. 'Backup plan, backup plan.' But I love music. I loved being in a band."

Silence, and Tyler pieces it together. "I didn't have a backup plan either."

"I was in a good apartment. I had a good job. Everything fell apart. I can't even fucking afford—" Josh shuts his eyes. He shakes his head.

"Told you I'd get you some weed, dude."

Josh laughs, and Tyler laughs with him.

"I'm not talking about weed," he mumbles, the giggles gone.

"What, then?" The zipper on Tyler's coat scrapes against the door as he shifts, as he turns to lean on a shoulder. "Because I'm getting connections. Good shit— _harder_ shit. Never really pegged you for the guy who'd do stuff like that, but I'll share."

"I never pegged you for the guy who'd do stuff like that either, Tyler."

Silence, and even more silence, and Tyler doesn't bother to answer. Josh hears him crawl on all fours, hoisting himself onto the toilet and groaning. Josh leaves to get another water bottle.

*

The next morning, Josh tells himself to get over it.

Tyler is still in the bathroom, passed out on the tile floor with his arms wrapped around his knees. A tight ball, he doesn't even look remotely comfortable. Josh stands over him and says nothing.

Josh tells himself to get over it. It's stupid for him to worry about Tyler. It's stupid for him to worry about anything at all because he'll be dead soon. Him and Tyler are going out together. Josh doesn't know in which way, but if the abuse on Tyler's arms is any indication of their chosen method, then Josh needs to grit his teeth and _get over it_.

That's why he rolls up his sleeve and allows Tyler to slide the needle full of _good shit_ under his skin. Humming, vibrating, Tyler is on fire, and Josh soon joins him.

They end up on the first floor, drinking with their landlord and his friends, occupying the couch, occupying laps, occupying mouths. Josh works over some guy with blond hair, and Tyler fucks himself on a cock that forces him to limp for the rest of the week. He stays in during these nights, curled up to Josh, and watches TV. The nights where Tyler is calm and measured, speaking quietly and laughing laughter that crinkles his eyes, are some of the best of Josh's life.

So, naturally, it makes sense for it to all fall apart.

Has Josh mentioned how much he hates his life?

He hates his life.

Moving on.

Josh notices it the week before Halloween. Tyler is drying off after his shower, using one of Josh's towels. "Four men are in my bedroom this time," Tyler said that morning, and nudged his way into Josh's apartment. "I need to shower and shit out their come."

Josh notices it the week before Halloween. All of Tyler's ribs are visible beneath his skin, his hip bones jutting out. Sharp angles, brittle fingernails, Josh thought it was the drug use, maybe he was sick with the flu, not _that_ —never that.

He doesn't ask. He doesn't want to know the answer.

"Tell me," Tyler says, naked in Josh's kitchen, head covered with the towel as he dries his hair. "What are you going to do for Halloween?"

Josh tugs on his hoodie strings, for once finding it easy to breathe. "Whatever you're doing. Most likely."

"We'll have fun." Tyler drops the towel to the floor. Hard edges, tired eyes, black ink on his skin, Tyler looks as if he's crawled from a grave. He's a dead man walking. His hair is fluffy, run through with fingers, and the hair on his face needs removing or maintaining. Tyler is wild. Nothing about him is clean cut. He's breathing, and Josh is proud of him for doing just that.

"You don't have to hang out with me," Tyler goes on to say, hand cupping the back of his neck as he tilts his head toward the ceiling. He swallows. He shuts his eyes.

Josh's heart breaks. "Where else will I go, dude?"

*

Josh doesn't go anywhere else.

Together they visit each floor. Hand in hand, the neighbors invite them in with red plastic cups and an enticing smile. Tyler is known to keep close to Josh during these nights, no matter if he's hunting for a cock to suck or ride. Tonight, though, Tyler doesn't leave Josh's side and doesn't look for someone to fuck. Maybe it's because Josh keeps insisting on finding a quiet place to sit. "My back hurts," he says at first, but once the pressure of a couch or a chair presses into his back, the pain shifts to his stomach, and it almost brings tears to his eyes.

Tyler is nurturing. For two nights in a row, he takes Josh onto a fire escape—doesn't matter whose—and holds on tight. Cigarette burning in one hand, the other rubbing gentle circles into Josh's stomach, Tyler ponders if Josh ate something bad. "No," he settles, "we ate the same things. If you were poisoned, I would be, too."

"I'll be fine."

It's worse the next day. Josh forces himself to leave the house, to sit on the street with Tyler and drum until his wrists scream no, until all Josh can hear is screaming. They earn a lot of money and eat at Taco Bell.

"You look pale." Tyler points.

Josh points. "Shut up and eat."

"Yessir!"

Once he has food, Josh feels a little better. But as soon as the sun goes down and Tyler knocks on his door, Josh is bad, and he can only shake his head to keep everything inside. Tyler understands. He tucks Josh into his bed and kisses his forehead. "Want me to stay with you?"

"Don't want to ruin your night," Josh whispers. "Go. Have fun. I'll see you in the morning."

Tyler is in Josh's apartment when he wakes, fixing macaroni and cheese. "Thought this would cheer you up?" He smiles, and Josh smiles, too. After eating as much as he can, Josh drops to his knees and sucks on Tyler's cock. This time it's different. This time, Tyler is gentle and massages Josh's scalp, dark hair, dark curls. "Yeah, take it all. You need it. Such a good boy. Holy _hell_ , look at you."

Josh pulls pubes from his teeth while Tyler pokes around in the fridge. "I stopped starving myself." He pulls out the milk. "Well, I never really started. I tried. I ate a little bit. Food's just so good." Holding the milk, shaking the milk unintentionally, Tyler's crying can only be heard by Josh. "I told myself it was because I wasn't strong enough, but I am strong enough. I couldn't stop eating because I didn't want to stop eating." He doesn't say anymore. He chugs the rest of Josh's milk and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. "Do you want to hang out tonight? Tonight's Halloween. I can paint our faces or something."

"If I'm feeling okay."

Tyler nods. "I understand. Maybe you should go to the doctor? I don't want you to be…"

"I'm fine, Tyler." Josh takes the empty jug from Tyler's hands and pitches it in the trash. "Maybe you need to go to the doctor?"

"I do. I… Nothing's happened." Tyler bites his lip. "But something might happen."

"Be safe," Josh says without thinking, and Tyler rolls his eyes.

"Rest up." He kisses Josh's cheek. "Big night for us."

Tyler's expectations are low. Josh can see it in his eyes. Not even needing to ask, Tyler scoops Josh into his arms and takes him into the bedroom. "Sleep," he says. "You'll feel better in the morning." He brushes hair from Josh's forehead. He's soft. Josh begins to cry. "Hush," Tyler whispers, and he's crying, as well. "Please. Sleep. Don't push yourself."

His voice is broken. "Please," Tyler whispers. "Don't go without me."

After some coaxing and various reassurances, Tyler leaves Josh alone with a promise to keep the volume to a reasonable level. At midnight, it gets loud. At midnight, all inhibitions go out the window. At midnight, Josh is well enough to leave his apartment, but it isn't to party. Tyler drank all his damn milk, and he'll be damned if he's going to eat dry cereal in the morning.

Door open, as are all the others down the hall, Tyler is on the floor, spinning a bottle and getting into the lap of whoever is chosen. There's tongue and teeth, and Josh allows himself a brief moment of shame before he's hurrying down the hallway. Another crowd is around the elevator, daring someone to get on it, and there are people vomiting and throwing punches in the stairwell. Josh is lucky to escape without so much as a hair out of place.

Cold outside, but the thought of Tyler keeps Josh warm. It's cheesy and stupid, and it's all Josh needs to stay sane. His stomach is starting to hurt again. If he pretends he's okay, then everything will be okay.

The trip to the gas station takes much longer than Josh cares for and expects. Drunkards bumbling about, kids running chaotic, Josh weaves through them all. He hurries. He runs. He thinks he might be joining the people vomiting in the stairwell. All he wants is to be back in his room. No, he wants to be with his parents, in his childhood bedroom, hugging stuffed animals and getting kissed good night and saying a bedtime prayer with his father. Josh wants to be ten years old again, when everything was simple, when the only thing he had to worry about bleeding was his knees.

Josh stops in his tracks. He blinks and furiously tugs on his hoodie strings, his fist curled around the plastic bag handles. In front of Tyler's apartment, door still open, Josh stands and watches Tyler crawl from lap to lap, kissing, shaking, crying—Tyler's crying. A closer look, and Josh realizes Tyler isn't truly kissing anybody. He's out of it, head lolling on his shoulders, lips parted and no words of sense being said.

"Hey," Josh says, and he says it louder. "Hey!"

People scatter. A guy drops Tyler onto his back, but another takes over. All hands, all teeth, Josh doesn't think; he's charging into Tyler's apartment, pulling his arm back, and smacking the bag with his milk into the side of the guy's head. That causes him to stop. That causes him to stare at Josh with wide eyes and a frightful shape of his mouth. About to say something, but Josh begins to yell. "Get out, get out!" he's shouting, too loud even for this apartment complex. "He doesn't want you! He's not fucking consenting! Don't hurt him! _Don't rape him!_ "

Josh said it to attract attention, and attract attention it does. Heads poke into the doorway, brows furrowed, and some enter the apartment, offering help. Two men take the guy into the hallway; Josh hears the smack of a palm and the break of a bone not long after that exchange. With the aid of two girls and a boy, they get Tyler into bed. Bucket set on both sides of his bed, a damp washcloth to his forehead, his head tilted to the side, Tyler is as comfortable as he can hope to be. Throughout this ordeal, he still has on that damn mustard-yellow coat.

With his milk now kept secure in his arms, the girl with pink hair kept in a fifties style guides Josh into his apartment. "I'll talk to the landlord," she tells Josh. "He'll make sure the parties are moved to the lower levels, or from the building entirely."

"Don't," Josh says. "I don't want to ruin anybody's fun."

"You won't." She rubs his shoulder. "You'll be ensuring their safety."

Josh doesn't feel like a hero. He feels like he's dying. Milk deposited in the fridge—jug dented, but Josh wouldn't have it any other way—and clothing removed down to his boxers and a loose t-shirt, Josh truly thinks he ingested a parasite that has reached its apex. Liver gone, kidneys disappearing, the bug gnaws at Josh's stomach and intestines. Little fangs pulling, yanking, Josh screams and claws at his stomach. Pale skin now red, Josh wants it out. He wants to feel better. He wants to sleep.

He wants to sleep.

The parasite wiggles its way out of Josh, dragging his organs with it. He's dying. He's dead. He's covered in blood.

Josh is covered in blood. There's sun in his eyes, and he's covered in blood.

Josh realizes it now. He hates himself.

Someone knocks on his door. Familiar, three short raps, it's Tyler. "Josh," he says, like he does most mornings. "Josh, it's me." He sounds normal, as if he didn't get too fucked to function the night before.

"Josh." Tyler knocks again. "Josh, are you okay?"

Slowly, Josh moves. Sticky, reeking, the bed sheets cling to Josh's thighs. He peels them away. He isn't slow with this. He needs to be slow, but he isn't slow. The first step toward the door is okay. The second step is fine. The third step forces him to stop in the kitchen, hand to his mouth, eyes on his legs. Josh likes watching a lot of things. Blood rolling down the side of his leg is not one of them.

"Josh."

"Be right there."

Another step, and it's fucking gushing. There's nothing to stop it. He's lain in a singular position for the night. His equilibrium shifted. It's gross. Josh is crying. How could he be so Goddamn _stupid_?

Tyler is all smiles. Although there are rings under his eyes, he's happy to see Josh. "Hi. I woke up to a bowl of candy on my table from the landlord. He said he hoped I was doing better or something? Weird. Did something happen last night? I don't remember that much."

"I don't know."

"Dude, you should come over! We can pig out." Tyler grows serious. "Are you feeling okay?" That's when Tyler sees the blood. That's when his eyes double in size and he jumps into Josh's apartment. "Josh, shit, did you—no, oh, God." Tyler touches Josh's face and kisses away his tears, his fears, everything, everything. "We need to get you to the hospital. You might have nicked a vein."

"Didn't cut myself."

Tyler isn't listening. He's talking. "I told you not to leave without me. We need to get you help. We need to go to the hospital."

Josh's stomach twists. "Tyler, please." He grabs Tyler's arm. "I need you to fuck me."

"Josh, you're actively bleeding! We can't—"

"Fuck me." Josh lowers to the floor and takes Tyler down with him. His boxers are cold and wet. "Tyler, I know what's best for me right now, and I need you to fuck me."

"Jeez." Hands trembling, Tyler touches Josh's waist. Fingers curl. Tyler can be rough. Tyler is cautious. "Josh, you're fucking with me. Don't fuck with me."

" _Fuck me_ ," Josh says, and he shoves away Tyler's hands, removing his boxers himself. They drop somewhere, soggy, gross, and Tyler's eyes drop, and he nods, says, "Okay," and he's undressing and rolling Josh onto his back and getting between Josh's legs and saying, "Okay, okay, okay, never done this before," and Tyler is inside of Josh, fucking buried until even Tyler's pubic hair is bloody.

If Josh wasn't crying already, he'd be crying now. Back arching, Tyler winds his arms through the negative space and bucks his hips. Josh yelps. "That feels so good."

"You keep clenching around me."

"No one's fucked me in forever." Nails raking down Tyler's spine, Josh mouths at Tyler's neck. "Are you going to fucking move?"

"Take off your shirt."

"No."

Tyler grunts and thrusts his hips forward. Josh gasps. Tyler gasps. "So fu—Josh, I lo—"

"Shut up." Josh squeezes his eyes closed. "Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_."

Tyler does. Tyler fucks Josh. It's rough. There's hair pulling. There's biting and accidental spitting and purposeful drooling. This should be gross. It sounds gross. It smells gross. They should have spread out some towels, but Josh is bleeding onto the hardwood, down his thighs, onto Tyler. Tyler doesn't mind. He's going faster, _harder_. Josh whimpers in Tyler's ear and sings hymns in the form of Tyler's name. And Tyler fucks him. And Josh croons and clings and comes.

It doesn't stop after that.

It's early in the morning. Josh can't stop it. "Sorry," he murmurs, but Tyler shakes his head.

"Keep going," he says, too far gone, hard and throbbing inside of Josh. With delicate touches, Tyler gives Josh's clit a rub and repeats, "Keep going," so Josh, after a moment to get over his embarrassment, lets his body finish, relax, release everything that's built over the night.

Tyler doesn't mind the piss. He's stroking Josh's clit and relishing in Josh's piss as much as he can. "Warm." Tyler tilts his head. "You're supposed to pee after sex. It's okay. You're okay."

"You haven't come yet."

"I'm about to." Tyler pulls out of Josh and wraps his hand around his cock, palm wet with piss and spit and God Knows What Else up and down the length of him. "How are you feeling?"

"The cramps will be back in a few hours."

"What helps you?"

"Heating pad. Orgasms."

Tyler pushes into Josh again. "I'll help. I'll help the best I can."

"I'll piss on you more if you continue fucking me like this."

Tyler comes. "I'm such a loser," he pants.

On the floor, not trusting his body to move just yet, Josh lies there and watches Tyler walk into the bathroom and return to the kitchen with a clean dick and semi-clean pubes. He pulls on his clothes. "You need stuff. Tampons?"

"God, no."

"Pads, got it. I'll get some with those wings, yeah? How's your flow?" Tyler looks down at Josh. "Seems heavy. Don't worry. I'll be here for you." He scratches the back of his neck. "But only if you piss on me."

"You're so fucking gross. I'll do it."

Tyler beams. "Be back in, like, twenty."

Tyler is back in thirty. "Crowds," he explains. "After-Halloween sales. Do you need help getting into bed?"

"Can you fuck me again? Are you up to it?"

"I have fingers," Tyler says, and he uses his fingers. Josh lasts three minutes. Tyler's lips are soft against Josh's. Tiny pecks, dry, Tyler kisses Josh like they have the rest of the world.

Josh showers, and Tyler cleans. "Don't have to do that," Josh says, and he says it again when he sees Tyler stretch on fresh sheets. "Did I stain the mattress?"

"A little." Tyler glances over, then returns to the bed. "I bought a mattress protector. Mattress pad. Whatever. I bought one. So, like, if it happens again, it won't be as bad."

Josh's stomach hurts, but it isn't from menstrual cramps. "Tyler, I—"

"Oh!" Tyler rummages in plastic bags and dumps two heating pads, a bottle of pain pills, and enough products for Josh to be set for months on the bed. "Stopped by this little shop. You said orgasms help alleviate the cramps, right? Anyway, I asked the girl behind the counter what would help my boyfriend through his period, and she suggested this—told me it gives her the best orgasms." Stuck at the bottom of the bag, wrapped discretely, is a Magic Wand. Tyler holds it up like it's some kind of award. "If I'm not here, then… well, you have this. People name their vibrators, don't they? Call this 'Tyler'."

"We need to talk," Josh whispers.

"'Bout?" Tyler tosses the vibrator on the bed.

"I'm your boyfriend?"

"Yeah," Tyler says, slowly, stretching out the word like Josh is having difficulty understanding. "Why wouldn't you be my boyfriend? You're a boy and my friend. Boy. Friend. Boyfriend. We also slept together. Plus, I really like your face. So." He shrugs it off, no big deal, and picks up the Magic Wand.

"Don't I get a say in this?"

Tyler turns his body. He stares at Josh. "Of course."

Josh presses his lips together to keep them from trembling. They tremble anyway. "I like it. I like you. I like—" He cuts himself off.

The toy lands on the bed once Tyler tosses it. Carefully, he wraps Josh up, hugging him tightly, and rocks them side to side. "It's okay," he says. "I didn't mean—I mean, okay, I'm sorry for being too forward. I didn't know how else to explain our relationship." Tyler's fingers weave through Josh's hair. He kisses Josh's forehead. "We need to talk," he whispers, and Josh whispers, too, again and again.

"Tyler, I need you. Tyler, we need to set boundaries."

"Josh, I need you. Josh, I won't be with anyone else."

Another forehead kiss, and Tyler holds Josh close, cheeks to shoulders, eyes shut. "Josh, I slept around because I couldn't be with you."

"I was scared."

"I know that now."

They lie in bed together. Sleep filters in and out. Tyler never leaves. Tyler is good, so good. Josh wakes with cramps at seven in the evening, and Tyler rolls onto his back and shoves down his pants to his thighs, and he holds the base of his cock, and Josh removes his pants and straddles Tyler's hips, and there's less blood than before, but there's still blood. Josh doesn't mind the blood anymore. He's used to it, and Tyler is used to it, too. "Never done this before," he said when he first entered Josh, but now he's fucking Josh like any other person with a cunt. The blood was different, yes, but it's a bonus, an obstacle. Josh rolls his hips and grinds, and Tyler moans and rubs Josh's clit, and all is right in that moment.

Tight around Tyler's cock, Josh comes and continues to sit. He clenches, holds it, Tyler losing it, the whites of his eyes showing. "You know," Tyler mumbles. "You know you can take off your shirt. Breathe."

"I can breathe just fine."

"Shut up. Get comfortable."

"I am comfortable."

"Bullsh—"

"Tyler, I'm not wearing a binder. I can breathe just fine."

Tyler thinks he understands, but he doesn't really understand. He bucks his hips, giving two final thrusts until he's coming inside of Josh. "I need to get tested."

Josh presses the bottoms of his feet to the mattress and pushes himself up. Tyler's cock leaves him, dark and bloody. Josh feels empty, and he wants Tyler back inside. "What's the point in that, if we're going to fucking die?"

Snapping, Tyler points at Josh. "You're right. You're right."

*

For the rest of the week, Tyler stays with Josh. Ignoring the cramps and blood escaping his vagina, Josh can honestly say this might be the best week of his life.

The week after that and the week after that, they settle into their routine: playing music during the day and partying during the night. Josh thought he'd grow tired of this, but a month is gone, and Josh is just getting started.

Since they agreed to stay monogamous, if they're horny and want an audience, they flock to each other. Josh sucks on Tyler's cock, and Tyler slides three fingers inside Josh's cunt and fucks him until he's begging for more than Tyler could possibly give him.

On a Sunday morning, Tyler hung over, groggy, and irritable, Josh pulls out his Magic Wand. "Let's try this," he says.

Tyler holds the toy. Josh's orgasm comes in two minutes.

"Magic," Tyler mutters, and sniffs. "How wet are you? Lemme eat you out."

Josh is over-stimulated, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

*

During the day, Josh twirls his drumsticks and listens to Tyler sing about a screen on his chest. During the night, Josh spreads his legs and listens to Tyler fuck him until they're both crying at their climaxes.

*

Neighbors knock on Tyler's door and ask to come inside. "Want to fuck your pretty mouth," a man says, words slurring together. And yet, Tyler stays with Josh, sober, has been sober all week, his eyes trained on Josh's face as he dares Josh to stay quiet, as he slowly pumps his hips into the back of Josh's leg. Lying on Josh's left, poised on his side like he's lounging, Tyler's thrusts are shallow, the tip of his cock in Josh's cunt.

"Deeper?" he teases, barely above a whisper.

Josh holds up his leg, toes curling absently. "Yeah," he mouths.

Tyler edges forward. Half an inch. He pulls back out, now sliding over Josh's clit. "You mean the world to me, Joshie," he says, and his eyes dart from Josh's eyes to his nose to his lips. "I don't even know why." He fixes the pillow behind Josh's head and pulls Josh closer. "You deserve everything, and you get stuck with me."

"Shut up," Josh says.

Tyler kisses him. "Told you to be quiet." He grabs his cock by the base and presses it to Josh's vulva, just rubbing it, mixing pre-come with pre-come. "Are you comfortable? Think I might roll over and get on top of you."

Josh nods, and Tyler sits up. Before either of them can register what's happening, Josh pulls his t-shirt over his head and lies down. Soft bed sheets, Tyler's warm smile, Tyler's warm body, Josh closes his eyes and becomes covered with kisses and whispers. "You're so beautiful. Josh, you're amazing. Fucking hot. You don't need surgery. You're perfect just the way you are."

When Tyler pushes into Josh this time, Josh doesn't cry. He thinks he might cry, but he doesn't cry. He hugs Tyler, and Tyler hugs him, chest to chest, panting in ears and grunting, groaning, sighing. Josh says, "I love you, Tyler," and Tyler doesn't remind him to be quiet because he's telling Josh, "I love you, too," and _now_ Josh is crying.

"You're okay," Tyler says, and touches his forehead to Josh's. His eyelashes are long, and they skim along Josh's cheeks. "We're okay."

He comes inside Josh. It isn't the first time.

"Hey." Josh butts his nose into Tyler's neck. "Why that coat? What's so special about it?"

"Do you honestly think I'm gonna tell you that?" Tyler rubs circles into Josh's nipple. "Why do you think I wear it?"

"You look good in yellow."

"Okay." Tyler kisses Josh's forehead. "That's that."

They sleep curled into each other. It feels right.

*

Thanksgiving is hell for everybody. Josh visits his parents, and Tyler disappears for the entire week. He shows up at Josh's door that Friday evening resembling a corpse. Josh hates it. He holds Tyler in the middle of his kitchen and rubs his back.

"Enough about me," Tyler says, and stops Josh from hugging him for any longer. "How was your Thanksgiving?"

"I didn't get misgendered." Josh smiles.

They high-five.

"Brendon's having a get-together. Makeshift holiday for those who didn't travel. Let's go."

Thanksgiving is hell for everybody. Tyler and Josh sit in a corner and drink and drink some more. They play a spin-the-bottle game for two and have sloppy sex. There's cheering, and that's the last coherent thought Josh has tonight. _Why are they cheering? This is bad._

_This is bad._

*

It gets worse.

Tyler goes back to old habits.

Frankly, Josh does, too.

When the sun goes down, Tyler knocks on Josh's door, and they're each sporting wrapped wrists and black eyes. "Almost there," Tyler says, and helps Josh out of the window onto the fire escape.

"Why are you like this?" Josh asks.

Tyler snaps. He hasn't slept. "What do you want me to say? That I was touched as a kid? That my mom didn't hug me enough? That I hate myself? I do hate myself, yeah, but I do this because I can. If I wake up and want to blow thirty dudes, then I can do it. If I want to sleep all the damn time, I can. And if I want to kill myself, I can do that, too." His fingers are shaking. He can't light the joint in his mouth, so Josh does it for him.

"What do you want me to say?" Josh says, serious, and Tyler rolls his eyes.

"Nothing."

They pass the joint back and forth, leaning on the rails and looking down at the road below. It's snowing. Josh's stomach hurts. He'll put on a pad when he goes inside, just in case.

"Want me to piss on you?"

Tyler snorts. "Fucking gross. Let's do it."

Tyler fucks Josh first, and it makes Josh so weak he can barely move. He wets the bed, and Tyler's fingers rub his clit and stroke another, albeit weak, orgasm from him. "I'm tired," Tyler says. "It happens tomorrow."

Josh is cramping. It's worse from before. "Am I bleeding?" he asks, and Tyler dips the tip of his finger inside Josh to check.

"No," he concludes. "Take a shower, if you can. I'll get the bed ready for us."

The water burns. Josh fucks himself under the spray and comes to the thought of being happy.

"I wanna be the little spoon." Tyler is in bed, dressed, and ready to sleep for several hours. Josh obliges after he pulls on clothes and sticks a pad in his boxers.

Sleep only claims them for three hours. Josh wakes screaming, clutching his stomach and scraping his nails into his skin. "Gosh," Tyler breathes, and tugs at Josh's shirt. "Shut up. I'll fuck you."

"No, Tyler, I—" Josh doesn't finish. He goes into the bathroom and checks for blood.

Tyler finds him on the toilet, hands to his face, crying. "I think, like, birth control helps with cramps, too." He yawns and rubs his knuckles into his eyes. "Doesn't matter. We're gonna die—"

"Shut the _fuck up_ , Tyler."

"Dang, Josh. You really need to—"

"Tyler." Josh drags his hands down his face. "I need to go to the hospital."

Fingers scratching his scalp, Tyler yawns again. "Well, lemme grab my jacket."

*

Sun rising, the sky a pink color, Tyler and Josh sit on the sidewalk designated for smokers. Nobody, save for them, is here. It needs to stay that way. They need to be alone. They aren't even smoking. They're sitting, a foot of space between them, need to be alone, need to fucking _talk_. But every time Tyler opens his mouth, Josh closes his eyes, and no conversation occurs.

"Please," Tyler tries, and Josh closes his eyes.

"Please, Josh," Tyler continues. "You can't shut down. You can't push me away. You can't—"

"Yes, I can. I can. _I can_."

Tyler seals the gap between their thighs. His hand goes to Josh's stomach, his palm flat, fingers spreading and curling into Josh's sweatshirt. "Josh," he whispers, and Josh shakes his head. "Josh, there was someone here, and we need to—"

"Don't need to do anything. We're going to ignore it. It didn't happen."

"We can't do that."

"Yes, we can." He shoves Tyler, though Tyler comes back, and he's hugging Josh, stifling tears in Josh's shoulder. "Tyler, get the hell off me."

"You must have known. You're supposed to know these things."

"I didn't."

"You're lying. You didn't want them. You did this to yourself."

"I didn't fucking know—"

Tyler screams. He screams and screams. And Josh lets him. Josh's ears ring.

"We… we…" Tyler's voice breaks. He doesn't move from Josh's shoulder. "Josh, I could have been a dad."

Josh tilts his head. Tyler's hair is greasy.

"I could have been a dad."

*

They sit on Tyler's couch and watch TV, coming alive once it turns to midnight, once it turns to the second of December.

They sit on Tyler's couch and watch TV, and Tyler plays with the zipper on his ugly coat. "Yesterday was my birthday."

They sit on Tyler's couch and watch TV, and they don't kill themselves.

*

On the second of December, Tyler and Josh go to the local clinic. Josh gets put on birth control, and the nurse has a sour look on her face—a nonverbal scold for Josh being irresponsible. She blames it on the cold room, but Josh knows. He knows.

On the second of December, Tyler asks how soon until they're able to start trying again. Josh wants to ignore him. He can't. "Tyler, that was a mistake. We're not ready."

"We could be ready. When the time comes."

"Tyler, we were supposed to kill ourselves yesterday. I would rather do that than have you come inside me again."

Tyler pouts. He doesn't protest. He knows Josh is right. He knows. "Piss on me?"

"Not tonight, Tyler."

On the second of December, they fall asleep in separate beds.

*

Josh tries to look on the bright side of things. It works, for a few hours. Tyler comes over that afternoon and fixes him macaroni and cheese.

"I was out this morning," he says. "Would have asked you to come, but I didn't want to wake you. So, I was out this morning, and this guy gave me a hundred dollars. Said he gave me a box of Band-Aids before. I don't fucking remember. He said he wanted me to get better. Whatever that means."

Tyler feeds Josh. "Are we on borrowed time?"

"No." Josh takes the fork and gives a bite to Tyler. "Let's move out. We'll get better together."

"To where?" Tyler furrows his brow, jaw working up and down as he chews.

"To somewhere not here."

*

By the end of the year, they have an apartment to call their own. It's familiar to Josh; it had been his home before eviction, and he hopes it will extend its pale blue walls and cozy corners and gray carpet to Tyler.

Tyler is wary. He doesn't trust the rooms, doesn't trust the whole complex. "Quiet," he says, "and there's no fire escape."

"You'll get used to it."

It's Josh who lies awake at night, restless and tossing the blankets while Tyler sleeps peacefully, for once enjoying the silence brought on by considerate neighbors. A month passes, and after that month, Josh finds no trouble when it comes to laying his head on a pillow and closing his eyes. Tyler's arm is thrown over Josh's chest, snoring. Josh has good dreams as he touches the skin on Tyler's forearm with the pad of his thumb. Smooth skin, unbroken skin, Tyler hasn't even thought about anything harder than marijuana for weeks.

Despite the cold, Tyler still sits on street corners and strums his ukulele. No longer actively working against himself, his chords are gentle, and every sound he plucks from the strings brings smiles and more money. Tyler is happy. He genuinely looks happy. He's happy. Tyler's happy.

Josh gets a job. It's a desk job, like the one he had before, but he doesn't have to wake up early. He sleeps in and rouses with Tyler. "You're cute," Josh says to Tyler's bedhead and pillow lines on cheeks. "I love you."

Tyler hums. "I left you a present on the kitchen table."

It's testosterone. Josh cradles the vials and crumbles in Tyler's arms. He can't speak. He can't do much of anything but be held.

"I talked to your doctor. I… I thought… Is this okay?"

Josh nods. Tyler squeezes him.

Tyler switches out his mustard coat with his mustard sweat jacket when it gets warmer. The mornings are still freezing, but the afternoons are pleasant if the sun isn't covered by clouds.

"Do you know what I can see?" Tyler asks, lacing his fingers with Josh's. "Do you know what I see when I close my eyes at night?"

They're in bed, sun set, TV on such a low volume it might as well be on mute.

"What do you see?"

"A kid. With scraped knees. Healthy. Always smiling." Touching a stomach would be expected, but Tyler doesn't touch Josh's stomach.

"Are they missing their front teeth?"

Tears in his eyes, Tyler gives a stunted nod. "Yes," he whispers.

"We'll meet them one day."

Tyler wipes his eyes and sniffs. "I don't want you to be miserable. I want you to—"

"Tyler." Josh cups Tyler's cheek and lingers a kiss on his forehead. "I know."

Josh doesn't have to try very hard. When he closes his eyes, he sees what Tyler sees, too.

**Author's Note:**

> [ashton](http://himesamaroso.tumblr.com/) drew [the cutest fucking thing](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/153759835774) for this fic :-)
> 
> [gray](https://stayaliivee.tumblr.com/) doodled a few [scribbles](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/161871111074) and they're, like, super fucking adorable
> 
> [ksenia](http://run-the-converse.tumblr.com/) drew [tyler](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/162367950719)!!
> 
> [ty](https://smtimes-quiet-is-violent.tumblr.com) made what is, quite possibly, the first ever [moodboard](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/167916913294) for one of my fics and it's fucking brilliant


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